


Enough

by NerdyMind



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Goodbyes, Letter, M/M, Post-His Last Vow, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts, older brothers are the worst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:56:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyMind/pseuds/NerdyMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His Last Vow - off canon<br/>Sherlock has written a goodbye for John, a letter to be read once he is in the air and off to his death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's farewell letter to John

Enough.

That is all I ever wanted to be for you, John.

This is ridiculous, writing everything out now. I know it will be too late when you finally read these words. But some animalistic part of me wants to hurt you. To make you feel even a fraction of the pain this one sided attraction has caused me. Not the same way I hurt you several years ago when I faked my death. No, I want this time to stay with you. To haunt you. When I jumped three years ago, you didn’t know why. You didn’t have all of the evidence. But now, surely you cannot be that dense. Surely you must know by now. Do I really need to spell it out for you, John?

You’ve ruined me. Before that day at Bart’s I was secure in my routine. The loneliness from University that had driven me to drug use was safely tucked away. You may roll your eyes and lament my lack of food or sleep or my addictions to nicotine and caffeine, but they are mild compared to my past behavior. Believe me when I say I had things sorted. Had. Until you broke me.

Mike waltzed in and you were there following him like a lost puppy. And I fell in love with you. Like a stray I wanted to take home with me and protect you from everything. All the scars I could read from your face to your heart. You were broken and you broke me. But I knew from experience it wouldn’t work. So maybe I flirted a bit initially. That first night. I allowed myself a brief moment before I would cut you off.

But then you had to go and save my life. John, you didn’t even know me yet. Why would you go and do something so reckless and idiotic? You can’t honestly say you felt something for me. You can’t. But you broke me then. That night I was sure you would destroy me. So I gave you nothing but ice. I told you I was married to my work. I did my best to ruin your mood, erase your smiles and push you away so you would leave me, move out and let me get back to my routine. I left experiments out where they would put you off your supper. I was cold to people in your presence so you could see how heartless I was. I insulted your friends, your family, your writing, your job and your jumpers.

But you stayed. You acted like nothing I did bothered you. But how could it not bother you? You make no sense John Watson. You saved my life over and over. I began to question how I ever managed to survive before you. But I couldn’t let myself grow complacent in your presence. When I knew how it would end. How it always ends. You should have left me so many years ago. Instead, you jumped a madman and told me to run. You were doing it again. Putting your life on the line for mine. And you sat there laughing afterwards, giddy and giggling and I could barely form words of thanks. I couldn’t even stand still and stop pacing to still my racing heart. What the hell did you do to me, John? You broke me.

I had so many moments of weakness after that. First with The Woman, then in Baskerville. I was slipping up too much, letting you too close. So I removed myself from the equation. A last act of apology, of thanks. I jumped from that roof secure in the knowledge that you, my lost puppy, would be alive. I said goodbye and I meant it. I never intended to return to you. To London. I assumed I would die trying to take down Moriarty’s network and Mycroft would clean up the rest. And you would never have to know just how much you broke me. You would never have to live with any of that guilt.

But then my stupid brother had to go muck things up. Sentiment pulled me from the fire and dragged me back to London. Back to you. And I admit I should have stayed away. Once I heard you’d moved from Baker Street. And you had Mary now. But I had to come see you. I had to make a grand entrance and throw myself back into your path. And I let you beat all of your anger into me. I let you scream and curse my name until you couldn’t breathe. I gave you your space and your new life. But selfishly, I pulled you back into my orbit. In the sparse moments we had those first few weeks, I did everything I could to bring back your smile, your laughter. I missed them too much. I craved them.

And then she happened. Mary Mary quite contrary. Oh don’t pull that face, you know my recollective ability for nursery rhymes. Mary crashed back into the flat, telling me you were in danger. And I couldn’t lose you like that. Not on my terms. Not to death. So I saved you, and I hurt you and pushed you back to her. I had so many opportunities to leave in the months that followed. But then you told me you loved me. Indirectly of course, Mary as the medium to transfer your feelings but they were there all the same and I was frozen. Speechless. You broke me once more.

I threw everything I had into your wedding. Determined to give you the happy life you deserved. I thought maybe I could give my broken puppy over to his new owner and she would take care of you. So I gave you dancing lessons, and a stag do and agonized over my speech for weeks. I followed your lead and told you then. I told you I loved you and I always will. I put everything into that song for you. But I saw how happy she made you. How you lit up and smiled in her presence. A face you never gave me so easily. With us it’s always a struggle isn’t it? And I knew you loved her. So I withdrew again. I pulled back and left early and hoped you would forget about me over time. And I, I could live a lifetime on our memories together.

But in your absence, I drank, I smoked, I brooded and I pulled up your blog. Our blog? And I was reading through our lifetime together. And my stupid insecurities got the best of me. I made that idiotic display in public, in front of everyone. And you replied. You were supposed to be on your honeymoon, John. With her. Forgetting me. Why did you pull me back in? It wouldn’t do.

My old routine wasn’t enough. Cigarettes and coffee were not enough. They were stimulants flooding my mind with memories. I needed something stronger. Something to dull my mind and silence your voice. You left me alone then. Finally. I was calm and at peace again, once more. Starting to forget you. To let you go.

Fate, it seems, is not so kind. And you showed up in that safehouse. Sitting right beside me, unaware of my presence and I could have let you leave. I could have stayed silent and watched you go. But my traitorous mouth betrayed my heart’s desire and I spoke. I would give anything, anything you understand, to not see that look on your face as you turned to me. I wanted to leave you with the happy memories of the Sherlock from your wedding day. Instead, I got that look of contempt. Of hurt. Of betrayal. And you dragged me into Bart’s and I broke your trust again. It was a pity Molly hit me. I needed your hands on me. I needed your anger. But you said nothing. You were so, calm.

And of course you know how this all ended. Mary shot me, to protect you. I died. I don’t know if you actually know that, but I died on that table. I know I said a bunch of nice things in our flat to keep you calm, but Mary didn’t save me. You did. And your life in possible danger is all that brought me back from that flatline. My desire to protect you. To keep you safe from harm once more. But then I still couldn’t be the one you needed. You chose her. And you sat her down in our flat, our last client. And you chose her again. I was not enough. I am never enough.

You were always enough for me, John. I never needed anyone else. My mind palace is peopled with the puppets of so many others, but it is your presence, your voice which follows me. Guides me in the waking world. It was your hand which kept me alive all those years. Your morals which kept me right. Your strength which kept me pushing when I thought I would fail. I never wanted, needed or desired anyone after you. I know now I never will. Mycroft has assured me that this mission, my punishment for caring too much, will end me. This is my goodbye. I could not tell you in person, because in our last moments I want nothing but your smile. Selfishly, I am giving this to you on paper to be read when I am gone. So goodbye my friend, my blogger, my doctor. My heart and my mind. You broke me and I will never be the same man I was before I met you. For this I hate you and I love you.

Always,

Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this as a bit of therapy. It was going to be an AU suicide note when I started, but then I love these two idiots so much, I imagined it at the airport instead. So now they can have their schmoopy reunion post-HLV in my mind.  
> _____
> 
> UPDATE:  
> Yes there will now be more to the story and John's reaction.


	2. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reads the letter then writes one of his own.

As the plane takes off John stands frozen, holding back the flood of emotions threatening to break him. The warmth of Sherlock’s handshake still tingling in his fingertips. He’s not an idiot. He knows something felt off, too final, about that conversation. The beginning of the end. In his pocket is an envelope, burning a hole to his heart and confirming the finality of that last farewell.

Less than five minutes later, Mycroft exits the car. Sherlock is coming back because someone else is back. Someone who is supposed to be dead. John is panicked but excited. Mycroft is saying something to him, voice hollowed and broken and he cannot understand. John and Mary are ushered off, told to go back home and wait for the call.

“No. Mycroft. No, he will not do this alone. Not again.” John is trying to rein his frustration in but he is seeing red until a calming hand falls to his shoulder and that placid Holmes stare anchors him.

“Sherlock will need to be debriefed, he is still on a short leash for Magnussen’s murder as far as NSY is concerned. You understand, John?”

Reluctantly, the doctor leaves before the plane returns. Back to a too quiet home with a too calm wife and he cannot sleep. Pacing the sitting room, John finally stops toying with his phone and pulls the envelope from his jacket. Sits and stares at it. Mary is asleep but he still feels too exposed. Sherlock was saying ‘Goodbye’. Everything in his face was screaming it. This is his farewell letter. And yet, John cannot read it. Not without some liquid courage.

He walks to the liquor cabinet. A nasty habit rekindled in the wake of Sherlock’s fall and disappearance. But he knows he won’t be able to read anything so personal with shaking hands. John sets the glass and bottle on a small table, flips a switch and finally opens the envelope. Fifth of whiskey and a small desk lamp illuminating the words before him. The first line takes his breath away. Those that follow stop his heart. And no amount of alcohol in the whole flat can stop his shaking hands or clear his vision now.

He reads the letter no less than five times. By the third read through he has blurred most of the final paragraph with tears. By the final sweep, he has stopped wiping them away. He is shaking. Angry with himself. Angry with Mary. Angry with Sherlock. _Why does everyone have to lie?_

John pulls his phone out. Begins a text to Sherlock, erases it. Begins again, throws his phone in anger. He is pacing. Freezes back in front of the small table and sits back in his seat. The doctor pours himself a new glass and searches the desk for a clean sheet of paper and a pen.

_Sherlock_

_How do I even… God, you daftfuckingasshole I love you._

He scribbles an inky mess over the words, crumples the sheet and tosses it. A new sheet is pulled out. John knocks back the rest of his drink, nods to himself as a decision is made and he begins again. This time the letter is addressed to someone else. _Mary_. And it is John’s turn to say goodbye. Knowing what he knows now, he cannot just bury it again. Mary may be free now that Magnussen is dead, but John still feels trapped. He tells her as much. He tells her how he loved her, and he thanks her for saving him from all those nights while Sherlock was away and his pistol sang sweet promises of escape. But she had to know she was a temporary replacement. She had to understand. He will help her with the baby. He will stay in touch as a father and as a friend. But he will not forgive her for killing the man he loved. That was asking too much.

John goes to his bedroom, gets dressed and leaves Mary’s letter on her nightstand along with his wedding ring. It’s just past two a.m. when he hails a cab to Baker Street and texts Sherlock.

**I am coming home. J**

Fifteen minutes later he pulls up outside their flat, still awaiting a reply. Terrified for Sherlock’s safety, John rushes up the stairs two at a time. Mixed images of death by overdose or death by Moriarty blur in his vision as he throws open the door to 221B shouting for Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson is stirring, frightened and yelling upstairs when his phone chimes.

**Apologies John, Sherlock left his phone with me as he didn’t believe he would have any further need of it. MH**

**Where is he? J**

**Still with Lestrade. MH**

**I’ll wait here. J**

**Should I inquire as to why you are not with Mrs. Watson? MH**

**Not now. J**

**Understood. MH**

Exhausted, John flops in his old chair and closes his eyes to the tut-tut of his landlady in the kitchen.

“Screaming your head off at all hours. Honestly, John, I thought Sherlock was gone and you’d moved out. Nearly gave me a heart attack and what with that maniac all over the telly earlier. Mercy, you have been drinking. I can smell it from here. No matter.” Mrs Hudson insists on making him tea before slipping back downstairs to bed.

Sipping his cuppa and calming his breath and hands, John begins to relax. He is thankful for the calm of his familiar flat, the smell and feel and sound of it. But just the same, John is reminded of those months following Sherlock’s death. The nights much like this where he sat right in this very spot, alone. Waiting. Hoping. And, suddenly, he wants to explain everything. He rises to their shared desk, pulls a fresh sheet of paper out and grabs a pen. Sherlock isn’t the only one who has ever felt alone. Unwanted. Unloved.

John pours himself into the pages. He tells Sherlock of every lonely night. Of how often he drank himself just weak enough to not put a gun in his mouth. He tells him how often he sobbed for hours in dark alleys, winded from chasing down a tall man in a dark coat and knowing it wasn’t his lost flatmate but hoping. Always hoping. He tells the pages how many times he harassed Lestrade and Mycroft. How sure he was that Sherlock could not actually be dead. He talks about how he finally had to move out of the flat because one night he got into an argument with the skull which ended in John climbing the fire escape and standing on the rooftop of their building. Staring down at the bins and telling himself _I bet if I were as clever as you, I could calculate my fall so it would snap my neck just right_. And how it was Sherlock’s voice in his head _Don’t be an idiot_ that pulled him back from the ledge.

He tells the daft detective how that very first day at Bart’s he was awestruck. _Didn’t I say as much?!_  John laughs.   _I shot that cabbie because I had already seen your value. You were priceless and worth saving_. And he writes. He writes everything he has felt from that first day. Everything he processed since Irene. Everything he couldn’t put into words after Moriarty. John fills seven pages with his reply. He gathers them, settles back into his chair to reread the words and await a text from Mycroft.

His eyes droop on the last lines as the clock slowly ticks past four in the morning. _I saved your life because your life is worth something. Everything. How dare you value it so little? You are my world. I would gladly give my life a hundred times to keep you safe just once. You are enough. I love you._  The pages flutter to the floor as his hands slacken in slumber. Physical and emotional exhaustion finally lulling the doctor to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be one final chapter to follow. <3


	3. No More Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A culmination of events on the sitting room floor.

Just after sunrise, Sherlock is reluctantly escorted back to Baker Street by Lestrade. “Oh! I almost forgot,” the DI says, patting his pockets and extracting a slim black cell. “Your phone. Your brother dropped it off at the station earlier. Do text me if you hear or see anything.”

“Of course.” Though Lestrade is eager to get investigations started immediately, Sherlock feels drained and just wants to sleep before facing anyone or anything else. He nods a silent farewell and heads inside. But before he can relax, he glances upstairs and finds the door curiously ajar.

Sherlock can hear footsteps and is panicked that Moriarty has dropped in once more. But before the hypervigilant detective barges in, he catches the scent of fresh tea and jam followed by a familiar sing song humming. Inside, Mrs. Hudson immediately shushes his questioning scowl as she sets tea and toast on the coffee table and looks pointedly towards the fireplace. Following his landlady’s gaze, Sherlock finds one ragged looking doctor asleep in the red paisley armchair.

“Poor dear, he must’ve been tired. I found these on the floor.” she whispers, handing Sherlock the pages of John’s letter. “I didn’t read them, but your name is on the top one.”

Sherlock freezes once the paper touches his palm, unsure where to focus his attention or what to say in response to his grinning landlady. _Why is he here? Did Mycroft give John the letter immediately? I told him to mail it. Oh god, if he read the letter then that means... Wait, what does that mean?_ His mind is still rebooting when, thankfully, Mrs. Hudson takes his silence as her cue to leave and pops off back downstairs.

 _John is here. My doctor is here. He came here, last night, looking for me. And he’s not wearing his wedding ring. Why is he not wearing his ring? There is an abandoned mug of cold tea on the table beside him. Untouched for hours_. Sherlock leans in closer to John’s face, sniffing. _Whiskey. Is he drinking again?_ John stirs and whispers in his sleep, hot air against his flatmate’s cheek. Sherlock grows acutely aware of the proximity of their faces and stumbles back, settling into his own chair. A faint rustling reminds him that he is still clutching John’s letter.

Setting the papers in his lap for a moment, Sherlock pulls out his phone to check for text messages and frowns when he finds the exchange. Seven hours. John had sent his curious “I am coming home” text over seven hours ago and Mycroft didn’t tell him. His brother is playing a dangerous game, one he is not in the mood for.

**You could have let me know he was here. SH**

**Brother mine, where would the fun be in warning you? MH**

**And you gave him the letter as soon as the plane took off. That was not what I asked of you. SH**

**Perhaps. But you are not the only one who dislikes his association with the woman who shot and killed you. MH**

**Is that sentiment I detect? SH**

**You think too highly of me. MH**

**Believe me, I do not. SH**

Frustrated, Sherlock tosses his phone aside and straightens the pages in his lap. His mind is wide awake, heart pounding with adrenaline as he begins.

_Sherlock,_

_You great big idiot. Don’t think for one moment that you’re not enough. You give me too much credit in understanding the curious emotions of the man I love. Because yes, I love you, but I never believed myself to be enough for you. For two years I convinced myself that you didn’t care for me. That you didn’t need me. I told myself every night that if you wanted me with you, you would’ve asked. But you had me convinced you didn’t. You’re too clever for your own good._

Sherlock feels the hot sting of tears blurring his vision as he reads on. Each page teaching him, comforting him, reassuring him. John’s letter is an answer to his in many ways, but it is all John. A bit reprimanding, but wholly endearing. The more he reads the more he edges towards John’s chair. Needing, wanting to be closer, he sits on the floor at his friend’s feet and rereads the letter over and over again.

John is roused from sleep by muffled sobbing. For a moment he is confused, forgetting himself and where he is. That is until, looking down, he finds Sherlock curled into himself on the floor. Rocking and mumbling, pages clutched in his shaking hands. Reaching out, John gingerly places a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. The man stills, shifts and looks up. His beautiful kaleidoscope eyes are red rimmed and puffy. Cheeks stained with the dried tracts of tears. John gasps, then slips from his chair and wraps himself around the taller man, pulling him tight against his chest.

“We are a couple of idiots, you know that?” John says softly, his own tears catching in his throat. Sherlock huffs a small laugh into John’s neck and sighs. He clutches to his best friend tighter and just breathes until they both stop shaking.

“John,” Sherlock begins. He has so many things he needs to say. So much he wants to ask about how and where and why. But he is cut off by soft lips crashing into his own and every thought racing through his mind is replaced with that one uttered name. He sinks into the kiss, pliant and broken. Keeping his eyes closed until he hears a small sigh and feels John pull back just enough to speak.

“Shut up, Sherlock.” The detective grins at the reprimand, looks up into the shining eyes of his doctor and sees something new. Something genuine and beautiful. And he doesn’t question it. He doesn’t want to question it. So he closes his eyes and kisses John instead. Neither man speaks, because every word has already been written. They kiss and they kiss until the tea runs cold and the toast grows stale.  A shared thought beating between them.

_For now, you and me, this is enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who enjoyed this work and left such lovely comments and encouragement! Writing it was, well, it wasn't fun, but it was fulfilling. <3 Thank you!


End file.
